5D7 


LIBRARY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 
1 BS" 


from  Ct^pt  ana 


from  Cnt  antr 


BY 
LOUIS  ALEXANDER  ROBERTSON 

AUTHOR  OF 

The  Dead  Calypso,  Beyond  the  Requiems 
and  Cloistral  Strains 


T  V!  £ 


$1. 9®* 

San  Francisco 
1904 


PTHKAL 


Copyright,  iQOj 

h 
Louis  ALEXANDER  ROBERTSON 


PRINTED   IY   THE  STANLEY-TAYLOR  CO.,  6.  F. 


to 

iames  9.  Colcman 


138830 


MUTE     TYPE     OF     PATIENT     FORTITUDE 
(To  the  Tree) 

Oft  hast  thou  bent  before  the  gale, 

And  heard  the  tempests  'round  thee  roar; 
Oft  hast  thou  found  their  fury  fail, 

As  down  on  thee  the  demons  bore. 

They  wounded  thee  in  many  a  war, 
But  still  thou  standest  unsubdued, 

To  battle  with  them  as  before, 
Mute  Type  of  Patient  Fortitude. 

Though  vainly  they  thy  strength  assail, 
Of  scars  they  gave  thee  many  a  score; 

Though  thou  art  armored  ivith  the  mail 
That  fiercer  onslaughts  may  ignore, 
Still  many  a  limb  from  thee  they  tore, 

And  on  the  plain  their  plunder  strewed — 
Trophies  that  Time  cannot  restore, 

Mute  Type  of  Patient  Fortitude. 


The  pleasant  pathways  of  the  vale, 

Let  sighing  Strephon  still  explore; 
Yea,  he  may  have  the  flowery  dale, 

And  fair- faced  Phyllis  there  adore; 

Thy  silent  shade  to  me  means  more, 
There  oft  in  melancholy  mood, 

I  stroll  to  learn  thy  saving  lore, 
Mute  Type  of  Patient  Fortitude. 

ENVOY 

To  calm,  blue  skies  I  see  thee  soar, 
Forgetful  of  the  Borean  brood 

Harked  on  by  thunder-throated  Thor, 
Mute  Type  of  Patient  Fortitude. 


tfrom  Ct^pt  ana 


jftom  ctgpt  and  c&oft  t&ege  turned  ate 

penned, 

jFot  gtfef  and  gladness  in  tfjem  blend. 
^fcete  (0  a  cell  beneatg  &ong'0 

fane, 

flfllfjete  man?  a  prisoner  of  pain 
found  tge  9$u0e  f)i0  closest 
ttienft* 


fits  eoucf)  sfie  comes  to  bend, 
teacfjes  Sim  to  matte  and  menu 
f)e  psalm  fje  sues  get  to  obtain 
Jptom  ctppt  ana  cfioit* 

mafees  tfie  organ's  tfiunder  tend 
tafteted  toot;  tge  tones  descend 
and  flood  tfje  dungeon  toitf)  tSeir 

Attain; 

But  unto  get  fje  turns  to  gain 
calmet  chords  sfie  lobes  to  lend 
JFtom  ctppt  and  cfjoft. 


CONTENTS 


The  Crust  of  Content 15 

The    Sequoias    16 

The  Burning  of  Care 17 

The  Songs  of  Sorrow 19 

Lines  to  Daniel  O'Connell 21 

The  Promised  Peace  22 

Protean    Zeus    27 

Helen 28 

Proserpina    29 

Eurydice    30 

The  Pigmy  Shouldn't  Play  the  Giant's  Game.  31 

To  Rudyard  Kipling  33 

We  Must  Sit  Silent  When  the  Devil  Drives. . .  36 
Give  a  Beggar  a  Horse  and  He'll  Gallop  to 

Hell    38 

The  Swoon  41 

The  Tearful  Troth   43 

These   Dreary  Days    45 

Phryne    47 

The  Crowning  Charm   54 

Happy    Days    56 


from  Ctflpt  ana  C^ofr 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 

THE  CRUST  OF  CONTENT 

He,  who  for  some  great  aim  hath  never  sought 
More  than  life's  stern  demands  to  satisfy, 

Climbs    closer    to    the    gods,    whose    needs    are 

naught, 

Than  he  whose  sordid  soul  doth  multiply 
The  millions  which  he  vainly  dreams  will  buy 

The  calm  content  that  gold  hath  never  bought; 

Croesus  to  Solon  this  confessed  when  brought, 
Bankrupt  and  conquered,  to  the  stake  to  die. 

The   crust  that  balks  the  wolf  may   sometimes 

seem 
Sweet  as  the  manna  in  the  wilderness; 

'Tis  when  the  soul  forgets  the  flesh  to  stray 
Where,  in  the  realm  of  some  harmonious  dream, 
It  listens  to  the  whispered  words  that  bless, 
And  learns  the  charm  that  chides  the  world 
away. 

[15] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE   SEQUOIAS 

Like  to  the  kingly  Saul,  whose  towering  crest 
Rose  midst  the  hosts  of  Israel  without  peer, 
So  we  behold  the  great  Sequoias  rear 

Their  cloud-kissed  crowns  of  glory  in  the  West. 

And  thus  they  stood,  when  on  the  Virgin's  breast 
The  longed-for  Shiloh  slept  at  last,  while  near, 

The  Shepherds  and  the  Magi  round  him  pressed — 
Their  offerings  to  the  infant  Christ  to  bear. 

Where  are  the  Syrian  cedars  of  that  day? 

Gone,  as  the  breeze  that  bent  their  boughs  is 

gone; 

Yet  these  great  trees,  triumphant  over  time, 
Stand  as  they  stood,  defiant  of  decay, 
As  when  they  watched  the  Saviour's  birthday 

dawn, 

And   heard   the    stars   their   Maker's   music 
chime. 

[16] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE   BURNING   OF   CARE 

However  fair  the  day  may  dawn,  when  in  the 

dark  it  dies, 
There  seems  to  roll  above  the  gloom  a  requiem 

of  sighs. 

And  yet  there  is  no  night  so  long,  but  morning 

with  it  brings 
The  faith  that  gives  the  soul  again  Hope's  new 

unwearied  wings. 

Then  swift  it  soars  to  where  it  sees  some  glow- 
ing haven  gleam, 

And  lark-like  cleaves  the  melting  mists  to  clasp 
the  luring  dream. 

Sometimes  we  realize  the  dream,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment live 

Within  the  calm  content  and  peace  the  world  can 
never  give. 

[17] 


FEOM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIE 

Oh,  if  that  moment  and  its  bliss  we  could  one  day 

detain, 
Then  Eden's  garden  glades  were  ours  to  wander 

through  again. 

The  best  philosophy  is  that  which  lets  the  Pres- 
ent cast 

A  curtain  o'er  the  dreary  days  and  doings  of  the 
Past; 

That  trusts  the  Future  with  a  faith  that  would 
not  fear  to  look 

On  every  pale  or  pregnant  page  of  its  mysteri- 
ous book. 

These  are  the  musings  which  are  wont  to  come 
to  us  tonight, 

As  here  we  stand  to  fling  again  with  our  accus- 
tomed rite, 

The  burden  of  our  griefs  and  groans  upon  the 

pyre  of  Care, 
And  watch  it  vanish  in  the  flames  that  feed  upon 

it  there. 

[18] 


FEOM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE  SONGS  OF  SORROW 

By   the   Babylonian   rivers   Israel's   children   sat 

and  wept, 
On  the  willows  that  drooped  near  them  hung  the 

harps  they  oft  had  swept; 
And  their  captors  came  and  mocked  them  and 

commanded  them  to  sing, 
In  their  grief,  the  songs  of  Sion  and  the  City  of 

their  king. 

But  they  sat  in  silent  sorrow,  and  they  thought  of 
other  days, 

Or  but  sadly  sang  in  undertones  the  great  Jeho- 
vah's praise; 

And  their  harps  hung  idly  by  them,  and  their  eyes 
were  filled  with  tears, 

And  the  present  only  mocked  them  as  they 
thought  of  other  years. 


[19] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 

So  the  singer  who  has  suffered  does  not  often 

touch  the  strings 
Till  they  tremble  into  gladness,  for  the  present 

o'er  him  flings 
A  deep  shadow,  all  the  darker,  when  of  the  past 

he  dreams, 
Then  the  song  that  sounds  his  sorrow,  unto  him 

the  sweetest  seems. 

Thus   the   many   mournful   measures,   which   we 

chide,  their  sadness  owe 
To  some  heart  that  dreams  in  darkness  of  the 

days  of  long  ago; 
But  oft  like  a  benediction  on  some  sufferer  they 

fall, 
For  the  songs  that  soothe  our  sorrows  are  the 

sweetest  songs  of  all. 


[20] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


LINES      SPOKEN     WHILE     PLACING     A 

WREATH     UPON     THE     MEMORIAL 

SEAT      ERECTED      TO      DANIEL 

O'CONNELL  IN  SAUSALITO 

The  wreath  we  bring  and  lay  with  loyal  hand 
Upon  the  stone  which  crowns  the  spot  where 
thou 

So  oft  hast  wandered  in  the  past  to  stand 
Where  we,  who  honor  thee,  are  gathered  now; 

This  wreath  will  fade  ere  scarce  a  day  hath  fled, 
But  'round  thy  brow  are  bound  the  living  leaves 

That  seat  the  Singer  with  the  Deathless  Dead — 
The  few  whose  laurels  Fame  not  often  weaves. 

Thy  lips  are  mute;  but  each  melodious  strain 
Thy  fancy  conjured  from  the  vibrant  chords, 

Lives  in  our  love,  there  ever  to  remain 
Among  the  dearest  treasures  Memory  hoards. 


[21] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE   PROMISED   PEACE 

It  is  the  season  when  we  turn  again 
The  pages  of  the  past  and  pause  to  read 

Of  One  who  gave  unto  the  sons  of  men, 
Long  years  ago,  the  best  and  purest  creed 
That  ever  proved  its  worth  in  word  and  deed. 

And  though  the  tidings  to  the  shepherds  told 
Are  unfulfilled,  again  we  hear  and  heed 

The  hymn  the  hosts  of  heaven  sang  of  old — 
What  time   from   star   to   star   their  hallelujahs 
rolled. 

Now  though  we  turn  with  reverence  to  the  past, 
And  with  fond  faith  its  sacred  story  tell; 

Yet  have  the  mists  of  Mammon  o'er  us  cast 
The  bane  of  unbelief,  until  we  dwell 
Within  the  dark  indifference  of  a  spell 

That  Christ  himself  should  come  again  to  break. 
That  bard  were  base  as  he  whose  cold  kiss  fell 

Upon  the  Saviour's  cheek,  did  he  forsake 
The  truth  for  fictioned  phrase,  or  with  false  fingers 
take 

[22] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIK 


From  out  the  treasured  past  one  grain  of  gold 
To  gild  with  flattering  pen  a  present  pride; 
And  for  the  future  —  no  man  may  behold 
And  chart  the  crafty  currents  of  that  tide, 
Down  which  it  is  our  destiny  to  glide 
To  where  across  Time's  trackless  waters  roll 
The  black  and  baffling  mists  of  Death  that 

hide 
The  unknown  bourne,  which  to  man's  dreaming 

soul 

Shines  ever  through  the  gloom,  a  hope-created 
goal. 

The  promised  peace  to  earth  has  never  come, 

And  never  will  as  long  as  man  shall  hear 
The  blaring  bugle  and  the  muttering  drum 

Call  him  from  kith  and  country  on  to  where. 

The  hosts  of  Greed  and  Glory  skyward  rear 
Their  crimson-colored  banners  to  his  gaze; 

The  while  the  lusts  of  loot  and  empire  sear 
His  soul  to  selfish  ends  and  sordid  ways 
That  mock  the  Star  of  Peace  that  did  o'er  Beth- 
lehem blaze. 

[23] 


FEOM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIE 

Or  worse  than  War's  shrill  clarion  that  wakes 

The  sleeping  thunder  for  some  foreign  foe, 
Is  the  soul-slaying  thirst  for  gold  that  slakes 
Its  craving  where  far  better  blood  doth  flow. 
No  Roman  triumph  in  the  past  could  show 
Captives  chained  closer  to  the  chariot  wheel, 
Than    Mammon's    modern    conquerors    who 

know 

No  creed  but  gold,  whose  hearts  can  never  feel 
The  peace  that  passeth  all  their  glutted  vaults 
reveal. 

The  flesh  is  more  than  raiment,  and  the  life 

Is  more  than  meat;   yet  we  the  truth  disdain 
And  battle  ever  in  the  strenuous  strife 

For  what,  when  won,  to  ashes  oft  doth  wane. 

We  labor  on  with  hand  and  heart  and  brain, 
But  at  the  best  we  build  upon  the  sand; 

The  peace  we  pant  for  ever  doth  remain 
Beyond  the  aching  heart  and  outstretched  hand, 
And  seems  a  myth  that  man  may  never  under- 
stand. 

04] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Beneath  the  burden  of  the  primal  curse 
We  toil  and  sweat,  but  could  more  bravely 

bend 

And  bear  the  galling  yoke,  yea,  were  it  worse, 
If  we  but  knew  what  waits  us  in  the  end. 
Or  if  we  could  back  through  the  ages  wend 
And  hear  again  the  ringing  reeds  of  Pan — 

See  Cytherea  from  the  waves  ascend, 
And  with  the  pagan's  raptured  vision  scan 
What  he  beheld  of  old,  we  then  might  bear  the 
ban. 

The  gods  and  myths  of  Greece  have  ever  flown 
From  field  and  mountain  and  from  grove  and 

stream. 

Ah,  no !  they  live ;  but  we  ourselves  have  grown 
Blind  to  the  beauty  of  the  splendid  dream 
That  thralled  man's  senses  when  the  unborn 

beam 
Of  Truth's  eternal  torch  in  darkness  lay; 

Before  the  din  of  dynamo  and  steam 
Moaned  Fancy's  dirge  and  drove  us  forth  to 

stray 

Far  from  the  pictured  night  into  the  dreamless 
day. 

[25] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Now  though  the  fountain  of  our  faith  be  dry, 
And    in    Life's    waste    no    cooling    stream 

appears; 

Hark!   to  the  chorus  rolling  through  the  sky, 
It  calls  across  the  desert  of  the  years 
And   chides   our  pagan   dreams   and   sceptic 

sneers: 

For  from  the  lesson  of  His  love  we  learn 
The    faith   that   falters    not,   the    hope    that 

cheers 
Life's  darkest  hours,  and  through  Him  we  may 

turn 

Into  the  path  that  leads  to  that  for  which  we 
yearn. 


[26] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


PROTEAN  ZEUS 

Into  a  Satyr  did  the  god  degrade 

Himself  to  clasp  Antiope  an  hour; 

Then,  as  a  Bull,  he  figured  to  deflower 
Europa,  deemed  Phoenicia's  fairest  maid; 
Amphitryon's  part  he  with  Alcmena  played; 

To  Danae  he  seemed  a  Golden  Shower; 
In  Dian's  form  Callisto  he  betrayed, 

And  as  a  Flame  entered  Aegina's  bower. 

Once  where  Eurotas'  murmuring  waters  flow, 
A   frightened   Swan   sought    Leda's   sheltering 

breast; 

In  his  warm  plumage,  whiter  than  the  snow, 
The     crimsoned    roses    of    her    cheeks    she 

pressed:  — 

From  that  immortal  mingling  Helen  came, 
Whose  beauty  set  the  Trojan  towers  aflame. 


[27] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


HELEN 

These  are  the  eyes  in  which  proud  Paris  gazed, 
When  fast  across  the  dark  Aegean  sea 
He  fled  with  Helen,  on  the  night  when  she 

Left  Sparta's  shore,  and  Menelaus  raised 

The  rescuing  cry;   then  War's  red  beacon  blazed, 
While  Greece  with  all  her  glorious  chivalry 
Dashed  'gainst  the  dauntless  Dardan  hosts  to 
free 

The  fair  and  faithless  woman  Homer  praised. 

Virtue  hath  rarely  worn  Fame's  glittering  crown. 
Where  are  the  women  of  the  past  who  reigned 

In  spotless  robes?  Penelope,  Lucreece — 
Ah  God,  how  few!  But  Helen's  glorious  gown 
Defies  the  dust  of  ages,  and  though  stained 
With  Passion's  grapes,  gives  glamour  unto 
Greece. 


[28] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


PROSERPINA 

Daughter  of  Ceres,  throned  within  the  shade 
Of  Hell's  black  arches,  ever  gazing  through 
The  gloom  to  where,  wet  with  the  morning  dew, 

The  violet  greets  the  sun  in  Enna's  glade. 

Year  after  year  it  flourishes  to  fade, 
But  through  the  mists  of  time  thy  face  we  view, 
As  fair  as  when  great  Pluto  paused  to  woo, 

When  at  thy  side  his  foaming  steeds  were  stayed. 

The  fragrant  fields  of  sea-girt  Sicily, 
That  bloomed  beneath  thy  feet,  have  barren 

grown 

And  all  the  music  of  her  streams  is  still. 
The  birds  sit  mute  on  every  withered  tree, 
With  thistles  now  that  velvet  sward  is  sown, 
The  winds  that  wantoned  with  thy  hair  are 
chill. 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIE 


EURYDICE 

How  Orpheus  must  have  thrilled  thy  captive  soul, 
When,  facing  Dis  thy  freedom  to  obtain, 
He  struck  the  classic  chords,  the  master  strain — 

That  made  rocks  reel  and  rivers  backward  roll. 

Hell's  tortured  heroes  heard  his  hymns  extol 
Thy  matchless  worth,  till  they  forgot  their  pain, 
And  turned — one  glimpse  of  thy  fair  face  to 
gain, 

As  after  him  they  saw  thee  earthward  stroll. 

Proserpina  sat  silent  while  he  played, 
Then  whispered  to  her  lord  to  set  thee  free; 
Great  Pluto  nodded,  and  the  gates  of  hell 
Swung  swift  and  wide,  while  Cerberus  obeyed 
The  taming  tune;   then  Orpheus  turned  to  see 
If   thou   wert   safe,    and   heard    thee    shriek 
"Farewell!" 


[30] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE   PIGMY   SHOULDN'T   PLAY   THE 
GIANT'S    GAME 

In  these  pretentious  times  when  Fortune's  walls 
Are  hung  with  treasured  trophies,  which  a  few 

Have  with  the  skill  that  climbs,  the  craft  that 

crawls, 

Compelled  or  cozened  from  the  common  crew, 
More  than  we  poorer  people  deem  their  due, 

It  might  be  well  to  hear  them  ere  we  blame, 
Remembering  while  their  vices  we  review, 

The  pigmy  shouldn't  play  the  giant's  game. 

The  slugs  and  bullets,  shells  and  cannon  balls 
Which  rained  as  thick  as  hail  at  Waterloo 

Upon  Napoleon's  brave,  unbeaten  Gauls, 
Till  he  a  fugitive  for  safety  flew, 
Are  nothing  now;   though  only  five-foot-two, 

A  place  among  the  Titans  he  can  claim; 
The  brain  counts,  not  the  body,  well  he  knew 

The  pigmy  shouldn't  play  the  giant's  game. 

[31] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Peace  hath,  like  War,  her  battles  and  her  brawls, 

Crops  have  been  cornered  often  ere  they  grew; 
The  market  rises  and  the  market  falls, 

The  Fates  have  favored  many  a  curious  coup; 

Plutus  hath  guided  many  a  gamester  through 
His  glittering  heaps,  and  taught  him  how  to  frame 

The    fortune,    that  —  from    nothing  —  millions 

drew; 
The  pigmy  shouldn't  play  the  giant's  game. 

The  posing  of  an  actor  sometimes  palls, 
But  here  his  talent  we  shall  not  taboo; 

For  when  he  swaggers  through  the  Thespian  halls, 
And  plays  the  part  of  Hamlet  or  the  Jew, 
Or  of  Petruchio,  whom  the  sullen  shrew 

Defied  while  he  her  temper  tried  to  tame, 
The  mimic  may  this  maxim  then  eschew — 

The  pigmy  shouldn't  play  the  giant's  game. 

ENVOY 

Prince,  I'm  a  laggard  at  this  rendezvous; 

I  met  my  Muse,  a  most  exacting  dame, 
Who  said,  'twas  vain  such  verses  to  pursue — 

The  pigmy  shouldn't  play  the  giant's  game. 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 

TO   RUDYARD   KIPLING 
(Double  Ballade) 

When  Triton's  thrilling  trumpet  tone 
Sang  first  across  the  restless  blue, 

From  East  to  West,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Such  witchery  o'er  the  waves  he  threw, 
That  Orpheus  from  his  lute  ne'er  drew 

Such  music  for  the  rocks  and  trees, 
As  that  which  o'er  the  billows  flew, 

O  Singer  of  the  Seven  Seas! 

That  sounding  shell  was  shoreward  thrown 

To  thee  by  Amphitrite,  who 
Now  hears  across  her  surges  blown, 

The  thrilling  notes  she  loved  and  knew 

Long,  long  ago;  but  there  were  few 
Who  ever  sang  such  songs  as  these — 

Which  on  thy  lips  ring  loud  and 
O  Singer  of  the  Seven  Seas! 

[33] 


PROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


These  broad,  blue  tides  we  call  our  own, 

Methinks  should  have  another  hue, 
For  in  their  deadly  deeps  is  sown 

The  flesh  of  many  a  fearless  crew; 

Though  for  our  Admiralty  we  strew 
To  shore  and  shark  the  fullest  fees, 

Still  "Give  us  more!"  the  surges  sue, 
O  Singer  of  the  Seven  Seas! 

Not  for  the  "Meteor  Flag"  alone, 
Dost  thou  all  other  song  eschew; 

We  hear  the  Liner's  engines  groan, 
We  feel  the  Freighter's  "  bucking  screw," 
The  Derelict  drifts  past  our  view — 

Scoffed  by  the  surge,  mocked  by  the  bree2«. 
Storm-driven,  battered  and  perdu; 

O  Singer  of  the  Seven  Seas! 


[34] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 

Yet  not  alone  old  Ocean's  moan 

Thy  many  measures  doth  imbue; 
To  sing  the  soldier  thou  art  prone; 

Thy  ringing  rhymes  are  a  tattoo; 

When  Tommy  Atkins  walks  askew, 
Or  stands  at  anything  but  ease, 

He  gets  from  thee  the  proper  cue, 
O  Singer  of  the  Seven  Seas! 

Familiar  forms  again  are  shown, 

Nor  would  we  from  this  verse  taboo 
The  "  Rag  and  Hank  of  Hair  and  Bone  " 

We  knew  her  well,  the  shallow  shrew! 

And  wonder  how  we  came  to  woo 
And  swear  our  love  on  bended  knees; 

But  long  ago  we  said  Adieu, 
O  Singer  of  the  Seven  Seas! 

ENVOY 

This  somewhat  sorry  ambigu 
Smacks  of  the  ballade's  strict  decrees; 

Our  Muse  dislikes  the  stern  gooroo, 
O  Singer  of  the  Seven  Seas! 

[35] 


FEOM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


WE  MUST  SIT  SILENT  WHEN 
THE  DEVIL  DRIVES 

Of  all  the  sayings  and  the  saws  we  hear — 
The  precepts  and  the  proverbs — new  or  old — 

While  many  fall  like  folly  on  the  ear, 
A  few  are  weighted  well  with  Wisdom's  gold, 
And  oft  some  philosophic  treasure  hold. 

Their  little  homilies  guide  many  lives; 
When  over  smooth  or  rocky  roadways  rolled, 

We  must  sit  silent  when  the  devil  drives. 

When   through   the   gloom  the   lights   of   home 
appear, 

To  welcome  us  across  the  wind-swept  wold; 
When  'round  the  blazing  hearth  we  gather  near — 

Safe-shielded  from  the  tempest  and  the  cold; 

Then,  while  some  song  is  sung  or  story  told, 
Fate,  from  the  freezing  world  without,  arrives 

And  like  a  wolf  glares  on  the  sheltered  fold; 
We  must  sit  silent  when  the  devil  drives. 

[36] 


FEOM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIE 

The  future  may  be  faced  without  a  fear; 

If  through  the  past  not  blindly  we  have  strolled, 
It  often  lends  a  light  to  lead  us  where — 

Havened  in  peace — our  hearts  shall  be  consoled; 

Though  Destiny  by  Fate  is  oft  controlled, 
Yet  when  the  heart  upholds  the  hand  that  strives, 

Fortune  and  Fame  may  be  o'er  Failure  scrolled, 
Though  we  sit  silent  when  the  devil  drives. 

ENVOY 

Prince,  many  a  man  for  years  has  been  cajoled 
And  buffeted  by  Fate,  and  still  survives; 

But  till  we  slumber  softly  in  the  mould, 
We  must  sit  silent  when  the  devil  drives. 


[37] 


FEOM  CRYPT  AND  CHOIR 


GIVE  A  BEGGAR  A  HORSE  AND  HE'LL 
GALLOP  TO  HELL 

Give  a  pauper  a  purse  that  is  bursting  with  gold, 
And  the  meats  and  the  music,  the  women  and 

wine 

You  will  soon  in  a  profligate  pageant  behold, 
For  he  cannot  to  Luxury's  limits  confine 
The  ambition  that  burns  in  his  blood  to  out- 
shine 

Even  lavish  Lucullus — whom  none  could  excel. 
There  is  truth  in  the  phrase,  there  is  lore  in  the 

line- 
Give  a  beggar  a  horse  and  hell  gallop  to  hell. 


[38] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIE 


He  may  rot  in  his  rags,  he  may  freeze  in  the  cold, 
He  may  snore  in  the  sewer,  or  crib  with  the 

kine, 

He  may  crunch  the  hard  crust  that  is  charity- 
doled, 
He  may  share — like  the  prodigal — husks  with 

the  swine; 

All  of  Poverty's  curses  may  in  him  combine, 
Till   the    dogs   that   licked   Lazarus   'gainst   him 

rebel; 
But   I   say  it  again,   though   the   saying's   not 

mine — 
Give  a  beggar  a  horse  and  hell  gallop  to  hell. 


[39] 


FEOM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 

Ah,  what  pictures  the  portals  of  Pluto  unfold! 

What  diversions  the  devil  delights  to  design! 
When  the  clattering  hoofs  of  the  courser  con- 
trolled 

By  the  pauper  are  heard  on  the  easy  incline; 

Then  Old  Nick  doesn't  take  very  long  to  divine 
Who  is  riding  so  fast,  for  he  knows  the  pace  well, 

And  awaits  with  a  welcome  both  warm   and 

benign ; 
Give  a  beggar  a  horse  and  he'll  gallop  to  hell. 

ENVOY 

You  must  pardon  me,  Prince,  if  this  envoy  en- 
shrine 
The  sad  lady  whom  Pluto  took  with  him  to 

dwell; 

But  to  fry  in  the  flame  near  the  fair  Proserpine, 
Give  a  beggar  a  horse  and  he'll  gallop  to  hell. 


[40] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE    SWOON 

I  have  swooned  nigh  to  death  in  those  white  arms 

of  thine, 

Till  the  trance  that  enthralled  me  hath  grown 
To  a  dream  where  the  glories  of  heaven  were 

mine, 

Then  have  waked  on  thy  bosom  to  own 
That  the  seraphs  who  stroll  through  the  regions 

above, 

Never  know  the  rare  bliss  that  I  feel 
When  I  wander  with  thee  where  the  labyrinths 

of  love 
Their  most  exquisite  raptures  reveal. 


[41] 


FEOM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 

I  have  looked  on  the  stars  till  my  listening  ears 

Have  been  filled  with  the  strains  of  the  blest; 
But  my  soul  a  more  eloquent  harmony  hears 

In  the  dreams  that  I  dream  on  thy  breast. 
'Tis  the  low,  blissful  beat  of  a  heart  that  replies 

With  a  passionate  love  unto  mine; 
'Tis  the  melody  heard  in  thy  murmuring  sighs 

When  my  being  is  blending  with  thine. 

I  have  walked  where  the  demons  of  sorrow  and 

pain 

Mock  the  memories  of  happier  days; 
I   have   drunk   the   dark   dregs   of   despair   that 

remain 

In  the  cup  of  the  love  that  betrays; 
But  thy  lips — like  the  breath  of  a  spring  that  is 

fled— 

In  my  heart  have  awakened  once  more 
All  the  glorious  dreams  of  a  day  that  is  dead, 
And  its  peace  and  its  passion  restore. 


[42] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE    TEARFUL   TROTH 

It  is  a  tale  that  has  been  often  told, 

The  story  of  a  love  that  leaps  to  life 

And  blooms  in  beauty,  though  a  dark  distrust 

Lurks  ever  near  to  menace  and  destroy. 

It  is  the  legend  of  the  love  that  lives 
Through  doubting  days  and  through  the  harrow- 
ing hours 

Of  long  and  lonely  nights;  a  love  that  dreams 
Of  unforgettable  and  feverish  things 
That  burn  within  the  blood  and  bring  again 
The  memory  of  the  murmured  midnight  vow, 
When  mutual,  melting  lips  were  wont  to  tell 
The  thrilling  and — perhaps — the  tearful  troth. 


[43] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Ah,  fair  and  fond,  low-voiced  and  lovely-limbed, 
Made  of  the  classic  clay  that  wakens  men 
To  valorous  deeds,  or  drugs  them  with  desire, 
Until  they  dream  that  lust  and  love  are  one — 
From  dawn  to  dark  I  see  thy  faultless  face, 
And  through  the  night  it  haunts  me,  till  I  feel 
That  I  could  gladly  give  my  life  to  live 
One  brief,  ambrosial  hour  on  thy  white  breast. 

The  memories  of  the  past  cannot  outweigh 
A  world  of  present  woe;  I  feel  as  one, 
Who — worn  and  wearied  in  a  wilderness, 
Wherein  no  fountain  springs  or  food  is  found — 
Dreams  of  the  glorious  days  that  once  were  his — 
The  feast,  the  flagon,  and  the  flowers  and  fruit — 
And  hears  again  the  mocking  melody 
Of  one  familiar,  unforgotten  voice. 

So  in  my  dreams  I  sometimes  feel  the  lips 
That  kissed  away  my  cares  and  chained  my  soul 
Within  a  charm  that  time  can  never  break, 
Then  wake  to  wonder  if  I  ever  steal 
Into  thy  thoughts  as  thou  dost  into  mine. 

[44] 


FEOM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIE 


THESE    DREARY    DAYS 

These  dreary  days,  how  dark  they  seem, 
But  from  their  gloom  I  often  stray 

To  greet  thee  in  a  glorious  dream. 

These  dreary  days,  how  dark  they  seem, 

But  through  the  clouds  there  bursts  a  beam 
Prophetic  of  a  brighter  day. 

These  dreary  days,  how  dark  they  seem, 
But  from  their  gloom  I  often  stray. 

When  thou  wert  by  my  side,  the  hours 
Were  lit  with  Love's  enrapturing  light; 

Now  dark  are  these  abandoned  bowers. 

When  thou  wert  by  my  side,  the  hours 

Crowned  me  with  Love's  unfading  flowers 
That  separation  cannot  blight. 

When  thou  wert  by  my  side,  the  hours 
Were   lit  with   Love's  enrapturing  light. 


[45] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Soon  there  will  dawn  a  day  when  we 
Shall  meet  again,  no  more  to  part; 

I  dream  of  all  the  bliss  to  be. 

Soon  there  will  dawn  a  day  when  we 

In  one  another's  eyes  shall  see 
The  love  now  hidden  in  each  heart. 

Soon  there  will  dawn  a  day  when  we 
Shall  meet  again,  no  more  to  part. 

Our  souls  shall  then  together  blend; 

Yea,  even  now  I  speed  through  space. 
This  hour  my  way  to  thee  I'll  wend, 
Our  souls  shall  then  together  blend, 
And  Love  unto  my  heart  shall  lend 

The  rapture  of  thy  blest  embrace. 
Our  souls  shall  then  together  blend; 

Yea,  even  now  I  speed  through  space. 


[46] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 

PHRYNE 
(A  Dream) 

When  thou  wert  with  me  in  the  waking  hours 
Of  those  delirious,  but  degrading  days, 
Now  gone  forever;  or  when  on  my  breast, 
Pillowed  in  slumber,  thy  fair  cheek  was  laid — 
Whether  it  was  that  each  enchanted  sense 
Was  drugged  so  deeply  with  thy  sorcery, 
Or  whether  thy  warm  lips  in  whispers  low, 
Unheard  by  me,  murmured  unto  my  heart 
"Why  dream  of  me,  when  I  am  by  thy  side?" 
I   cannot  say;    but  through  those  after  hours — 
The  sequent  drowsy  intervals,  when  love 
Languished  a  little  ere  it  waked  again — 
I  never  saw  thy  face  come  to  console 
Or  mock  me  in  my  sleep  as  now,  when  I 
Turn  in  the  dark  with  dream-deluded  lips 
To  kiss  the  pillow  pressed  by  thee  no  more. 

[47] 


FEOM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIE 

Sometimes  as  fair  as  Eos,  when  she  flings 
The   sombre   curtains   of   the   night   apart, 
To  beam  in  beauty  on  a  sleeping  world, 
Dost  thou  appear  to  me;  yea,  I  have  felt 
The  pressure  and  the  passion  of  thy  lips, 

And  almost  heard  thee  whisper  as  of  old. 
********* 

One  night  I  dreamt  that  I  was  one  among 

A  multitude  of  people  gathered  in 

The  city  Cecrops  founded;  there  I  saw 

A  spacious  place,  circled  with  shrines  and  fanes, 

Ornate  with  chiseled  treasures  that  were  brought 

From  classic  shades  to  crown  a  pagan  rite 

With  a  reflected  glory  of  the  day 

That  dawned  when  Aphrodite  trod  the  seas. 


[48] 


FEOM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


In  the  mute  language  that  the  dreamer  speaks, 
I  questioned  one  who  stood  near  me,  to  learn 
The  meaning  of  the  mighty  concourse  there; 
He  pointed  to  an  empty  pedestal 
Standing  between  two  sculptured  effigies 
Of  foam-born  Cytherea;    one  revealed 
A  carved  conceit  of  unimpassioned  Love, 
The  other  was  a  marble  dream  of  Lust. 

Upon  the  right,  the  chaste  Ourania  sat, 
A  milk-white  dove  upon  her  whiter  breast, 
And  on  her  brow  the  sacred  myrtle  leaves. 
While  on  the  left,  Euploea  stood  as  when 
The  Cnidian  youth  stole  to  her  in  the  dark, 
And  stained  her  snowy  bosom  with  the  blood 
Of  lips  that  crushed  her  marble  mouth  in  vain. 


[49] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Then  mystic  hymns,  such  as  are  only  heard 
In  the  domain  of  an  englamouring  dream, 
Rolled  from  the  opening  portals  of  a  fane, 
In  which  a  throng  of  priestesses  appeared, 
Led  by  a  priest;  a  woman  with  them  walked, 
Hooded  and  masked,  garbed  in  a  purple  robe 
That  swept  the  shining  tiles  on  which  she  trod 
With  slow  and  stately  step,  until  she  came 
And  paused  in  silence  at  the  vacant  plinth. 


[50] 


FEOM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Then  did  the  priest  proclaim  that  she  was  one 

In  whom  the  best  and  basest  elements 

Mingled  together  in  a  breast  on  which 

E'en  Zeus  himself  had  been  content  to  rest. 

He  also  told  that  listening  host  that  she 

Possessed  the  "cestus"  Cytherea  wore — 

The  conquering  charm  that  no  man  may  resist. 

He  said  it  was  a  flavor  of  the  flesh, 

Found  only  in  a  few,  and  only  when 

Some  face,  some  form,  and,  it  may  be,  some  voice 

Combine  with  it  to  kindle  in  the  blood 

The  rabies  of  a  desperate  desire. 

He  said  as  well,  she  loved  to  worship  in 

Pandemos'  shrine,  then  wander  forth  to  give 

The  sailormen  of  Salamis  her  lips. 


[51] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 


Then  turning  from  that  eager  throng  to  her, 
And  pointing   to   the   plinth,   he   said,   "Ascend, 
Let  us  behold  the  breathing  beauty  which 
In  after  ages  man  shall  turn  to  see, 
But  through  the  dim,  deluding  mists  of  time; 
For  thou  art  one  of  those  who  have  the  power 
To  prompt  the  chisel  and  the  brush  and  pen, 
And  gain  an  undeserved,  but  deathless  fame.'* 

Still  masked  and  robed,  she  in  an  instant  scaled 

The  waiting  pedestal,  where  she  remained 

A  mystery  for  a  moment,  but  no  more; 

For  at  a  sign,  the  robe  slipped  from  her  form, 

The  hood  dropped  off,  the  mask  was  flung  aside, 

And  Phryne  stood  in  faultless  beauty  there. 


[52] 


FROM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIR 

The  marble  miracle  of  Phidias — 
The  chaste  Ourania — seemed  to  shrink  away. 
The  people  cried  with  an  applauding  voice, 
"Euploea!  O  Euploea!"  for  they  saw 
In  Phryne's  form  the  living  counterpart 
Of  one  whose  Parian  beauty  never  paled, 
Until  it  met  its  breathing  prototype — 
The  matchless  mistress  of  Praxiteles. 

Then  silence  followed;  as  I  looked  on  her, 

Methought  I  saw  a  likeness  unto  thee, 

And  cried  thy  name  aloud;  a  thousand  tongues 

Chorused  my  cry  and  claimed  thee  as  their  own. 

Then  in  the  clamor  I  awoke  to  find 

The  dream  as  fleeting  as  thy  faithless  love. 


[53] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


THE    CROWNING    CHARM 

It  is  because  the  truth  is  on  thy  lips 

That  thou  art  dear  to  me. 
Thy  candor  and  thy  confidence  eclipse 

All  other  charms  in  thee. 

Though  thou  art  crowned  with  grace  and  beauty, 
dear, 

A  better  boon  is  thine: 
It  is  the  heart  that  held  no  faltering  fear 

When  it  confessed  to  mine. 

I  learn  from  thee  the  courage  that  can  cast 

A  scrutinizing  beam 
Upon  the  sombre  spectres  of  the  past, 

Till,  like  a  dismal  dream, 
They  fade  away  and  in  their  caverns  cower 

Before  my  fearless  gaze; 
Yea,  love  has  given  unto  me  the  power 

To  laugh  at  other  days. 

[54] 


FEOM    CEYPT    AND    CHOIE 


It  is  no  wonder  then  that  on  thy  breast 

I  find  the  longed-for  goal, 

Which  through  a  waste  of  years  hath  been  the 
quest 

Of  an  o'erwearied  soul. 
But  I  have  reached  at  last  the  oasis 

I  dreamed  of  in  my  youth, 
And  drink  the  passion  of  thy  peerless  kiss, 

The  sweeter  for  its  truth. 


[55] 


FROM    CRYPT    AND    CHOIR 


HAPPY   DAYS 

There  is  no  music  like  the  merry  clink 
Of  glasses,  when  some  fair  one's  health  we  drink; 
There  is  no  toast  more  fitting  than  the  phrase 
My  mistress  murmurs,  it  is  "  Happy  Days !  " 

Wet  with  the  wine,  her  red  lips  part  to  show 
Pearls  that  are  whiter  than  the  winter  snow; 
The  amber  beads  that  sparkle  in  the  glass, 
Blush  crimson  as  her  rose-leaf  lips  they  pass. 

The  Mirth,  the  Music,  and  the  Wit,  and  Wine 
With  whispered  kiss  and  dreaming  eyes  combine 
And  kindle  in  my  heart  the  love  that  lights 
*The  way  from  happy  days  to  heavenly  nights. 

Oh,  heavenly  nights!    An  arctic  winter  were 
Too  short  to  linger  by  the  side  of  her 
Whose  lips  would  make  it  seem  a  night  in  June— 
On  whose  brief  bliss  the  dawn  would  break  too 
soon. 

[56] 


PRESS    NOTICES 

SOME  PRESS  NOTICES 

of 

"The    Dead    Calypso,'*   "Beyond   the    Requiems" 
and  "Cloistral  Strains." 

Last  night  before  retiring,  I  read  again  for  the 
third  or  fourth  time  that  powerful  poem  "Ataxia." 
What  imagination!  What  realism!  It  stirred 
every  fibre  of  my  nature,  awakened  every  quality 
and  every  faculty,  and  mixed  all  night  with  all  my 
thoughts  and  fancies.  If  a  piece  of  self-revela- 
tion, it  is  awful;  anyway  it  is  a  super-Byronic 
production  —  creation.  —  Addison  P.  Russell, 
Author  of  "A  Club  of  One." 

There  is  good  poetry  in  this  book;  some  of  the 
verses  being  of  great  strength  and  originality. 
—Boston  "Times,"  November  10,  1901. 

Louis  A.  Robertson's  book,  "The  Dead  Ca- 
lypso," made  him  a  singer  of  national  note. — 
New  York  "World,"  January  24,  1903. 

[59] 


PRESS    NOTICES 

A  notable  feature  of  the  work  of  this  Golden 
State  poet  is  the  near  approach  to  perfection  of 
his  poetry.  He  avoids  false  quantity,  and  the 
tone  of  each  poem  is  sustained  from  beginning  to 
end,  so  that  one  is  constrained  to  follow  it  to  its 
conclusion. — Buffalo  "Courier,"  December,  1902. 

Some  of  Louis  A.  Robertson's  sonnets  are 
equal  to  the  best  in  the  English  language. — San 
Francisco  "Bulletin." 

He  seems  on  the  whole  the  most  promising  of 
the  literary  group. — Chicago  "Inter-Ocean,"  De- 
cember 30,  1901. 

Among  the  many  who  made  their  first  appear- 
ance, Louis  A.  Robertson,  who  wrote  "The  Dead 
Calypso,"  is  probably  the  best. — Baltimore  "Sun," 
December  26,  1901. 

The  collection  throughout  shows  the  hand  of  a 
master,  and  is  sure  to  be  welcomed  as  a  real  con- 
tribution to  the  poetic  literature  of  our  country. — 
Trenton,  N.  J.,  "Times,"  February  21,  1902. 

[60] 


PRESS    NOTICES 

Louis  A.  Robertson  is  one  poet  of  the  day 
whose  poetry  can  be  read  more  than  once. — San 
Francisco  "Post,"  December  13,  1902. 

"Cloistral  Strains"  places  Louis  A.  Robertson 
amongst  the  foremost  and  most  divine  of  poets. 
— San  Jose  "Mercury,"  December  6,  1902. 

Mr.  Robertson's  work  is  all  of  a  high  literary 
order.  This  California  poet  has  already  won 
recognition  in  England  and  other  countries  as 
well  as  California. — Boston  "Beacon,"  December 
24,  1902. 

The  work  opens  with  a  challenging  call  to  that 
once  fascinating  goddess,  and  in  a  metre  almost  as 
seductive  as  the  smile  of  the  siren  it  taunts.  The 
book  is  full  of  good  verse.  Mr.  Robertson  is  a 
poet,  and  the  West  is  the  better  for  him. — Chicago 
"Record-Herald,"  December  28,  1904. 

The  melody  of  the  verse  is  as  notable  as  the 
warmth  of  its  fancy. — New  York  "Times." 

[61] 


PRESS    NOTICES 

The  book  has  fire  and  grit  in  it.  It  has  also 
much  tenderness  and  sadness.  It  runs  the  gamut 
from  the  most  spiritual  aspiration  to  the  rage  of 
desire  defeated  in  satiation.  In  the  matter  of 
form  all  the  verses  are  exquisitely  done.  In  the 
matter  of  feeling  the  intensity  is  poignant.  Al- 
ways the  song  has  color  to  it,  has  blood  and  bone 
and  flesh  woven  through  it.  Mr.  Robertson  is  a 
lover  of  the  sonnet,  and  his  book  contains  a  dozen 
poems  in  that  form  that  are  of  exquisite  work- 
manship.— St.  Louis  "Mirror,"  October  10,  1901. 

There  are  poems  in  this  volume  of  noble  range. 
Robertson  is  certainly  a  purist,  and  has  a  thor- 
ough knowledge  of  the  technique  of  poetry.  He 
is  never  guilty  of  false  quantity,  nor  does  he  ever 
lower  the  tone  from  its  original  setting.  His 
work  has  received  recognition  in  the  East  and 
England,  and  there  is  an  increasing  demand  for 
the  work  of  this  extraordinary  California  poet. 
Louis  Alexander  Robertson  is  one  of  the'  few 
poets  of  the  day  whose  work  can  be  read  more 
than  once. — San  Francisco  "Post,"  December  13, 
1901. 

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PRESS    NOTICES 

Mr.  Robertson's  lines  reveal  the  faculty  of  mak- 
ing the  old  mythology  real.  Like  Keats,  he  fuses 
his  thought  into  an  imaginative  glow  that  makes 
the  fables  of  Greece  and  Rome  live  again  for  us 
of  these  prosaic  days.  Those  who  feel  the  sway 
of  his  passion  will  recognize  the  hand  of  a  master. 
— San  Francisco  "Chronicle,"  August  11,  1901. 

His  verses  show  the  hand  of  a  man  of  great 
literary  attainments;  a  man  whose  mentality  has 
been  cultivated  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  yet  whose 
soul  is,  and  ever  has  been,  the  soul  of  a  born 
poet.  In  expression  and  form  Mr.  Robertson's 
verses  are  in  themselves  perfect;  yet  this  mechani- 
cal excellence,  if  we  may  so  express  it,  attracts  no 
attention  to  itself.  The  lines  run  so  smoothly 
and  the  thoughts  are  so  beautifully  expressed,  that 
it  is  the  intent  of  the  poetry,  and  not  its  form, 
that  makes  the  lasting  impression  on  the  reader's 
mind. — San  Francisco  "Call,"  August  18,  1901. 

The  beauty  of  the  lines  is  most  often  that  of 
the  polished  and  engraved  gem,  yet  his  thought 

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PRESS    NOTICES 

moves  freely  and  gives  no  hint  of  fetters. — San 
Francisco  "Argonaut,"  August  26,  1901. 

In  this  book  there  are  verses  that  thrill  the 
senses  and  stir  the  blood  and  awake  one's  enthusi- 
asm and  cause  one  to  read  and  reread;  there  are 
lines  that  impress  one  with  their  beauty  as  a 
faultless  piece  of  statuary,  and  there  are  some 
that  cut  the  air  with  the  swing  of  a  flaming 
scimitar.  His  songs  come  to  us  in  many  strains, 
and  through  the  sob  of  lascivious  music  and  the 
flow  of  forbidden  wine  there  steals  the  echo  of 
the  swelling  choir  and  the  impressive  cadence  of 
the  cathedral  hymn,  chanted  in  a  key  that  har- 
monizes well  with  the  dim  religious  lights. — San 
Francisco  "News  Letter,"  August  10,  1901. 

His  lines  oft  glow  with  brilliant  pictures;  they 
unfold  grand  scenes;  tableau  after  tableau  pre- 
sents itself  in  brilliant,  pulsating  coloring.  This 
is  particularly  true  of  the  poem  "The  Dead 
Calypso."  The  scenes  painted  are  the  work  of 
a  master  of  the  English  language. — San  Francisco 
"Bulletin,"  August  18,  1901. 

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